Work Text:
The Targaryen lineage has ever been a knot of relation and toxicity.
Each happy couple was split too soon. The terrible ones much overstaying their welcome.
It was as if the gods — if they even existed — had spurned this family for their incestuous practices, their disregard for the honourable laws of men.
Marriage of brother to sister, uncle to niece, cousin to cousin, all of it was considered inhuman.
You cared not.
The only place that you had every felt any sense of belonging was your brother's loving arms.
In many ways, you were opposites.
While the prince had barely a streak of silver and mismatched eyes, you had practically white hair and bright, piercing violet eyes. The image of Old Valyria, as your grandsire said.
Your brother tended to listen more and speak less, always saving his words lest they become whistles of uselessness, while you could speak from dusk until dawn and still have a new sentence tipping your tongue. The differences in your personalities seemed to even each other's out.
Valarr was one year your elder; your protector, your heart since childhood.
For your marriage you were more than grateful— now you woke in your brother's warm embrace each morn.
Of the last moon, everyone had been weary.
Since the tourney at Ashford Meadow, your brother had stepped up and shouldered much of your father's duties.
Baelor was rather unharmed — only a small surface wound at the back of the head — and insisted that his son's efforts were unnecessary, though the guilt that still ate at Valarr had him ignoring his sire.
Today, you sat at The Hand's bedside — as you had each day since returning from the tourney — in an effort to entertain him. You mused that you would go mad if you were confined so.
The scent of salty coastal air and high, excited giggles filled the chamber, your six moon old son being tickled by his grandsire.
There was a lazy grin on your face as Baelon squealed and reached for you, only to be pulled back into a tight embrace on Baelor's chest.
"Little scoundrel, running from your grandsire." The elder man murmured into his messy tufts of silver and brown, the child calming. The pillow linen rustled when your father turned his head to look at you, eyeing the thoughtful expression on your face.
"Have I bored you?"
Your violet eyes flicked from the babe to your father, hands gripping the armrests of your chair as you slouched, shaking your head.
"What, then, is it that has your mind elsewhere?" He asked softly, one large hand on his grandson's back, his other reaching out to cover yours.
The prince's mismatched eyes met yours, a knowing glimmer in them. Still, he could read you like you were a guilty child.
A sigh left you, crawling into bed and resting your head on his shoulder. "I worry for Valarr. Guilt torments him, he is overworked."
Baelor hummed and stroked your bicep slowly. "That boy has a limerence for scrolls when so burdened."
Wise as ever, yet unhelpful.
"Mhm." The murmur was indolent and careless, eyes set on your chubby-cheeked babe as he drifted off further and further into the land of dreams.
Your father leaned his head against yours and plotted.
"Let me have Baelon tonight." A large hand cupped the boy's back, patting him gently— a small smile on his face. "I will prohibit your brother from work, and you two may relax together."
Slow blinks took your eyes, a yawn leaving your deprived lips as you made a sound of a agreement. Father always seemed to know best.
That evening, you had all attendees dismissed, a warm bath drawn, and a calming atmosphere created inside of your chambers.
The rooms were not fancied — just simple candlelight and evening air — your dear brother never liked to be fussed over. Personal gestures were what pierced his truly tender heart; a gentle kiss, a tight embrace, and a soft praise whispered against the linens.
The crimson bedcovers crinkled to accommodate your body; laid on your stomach, face cupped in your hands, eyeing the wall he should soon round.
And surely he did— with a loud huff.
Valarr was unaware of your presence, and tense after a long day of fighting with himself in the Tower of The Hand.
As the door slammed shut he walked further into the chamber, tugging at his black doublet to open it, letting it fall and doing the same so his shirt hit the floor too.
Recently he had been plagued by the feeling of inadequacy, and it had been slowly consuming him from the inside out.
The Young Prince had never been one for half-efforts. Everything he did was intentional, seeking the approval of his father and that worthy feeling he chased.
Yet after Baelor was injured — in his own armour, no less — it all seemed feckless.
He was a disappointment; his own plates melded for such a task not even protecting his dear sire.
As aforementioned, this had been taking a great toll on him physically and mentally, your husband sleeping early and speaking less this past month.
Valarr cracked his knuckles against the textured wall as he rounded it, eager to lie down and forget about the cut-short day of stress.
Then he spotted you. His sweet wife, swallowed by the large bed and domineering colours, angelic in the face and sinful in the body, laid in the marital sheets waiting for him.
This was the type of solace singers wrote of their yearning anhedonia for.
Silver eyelashes batted slowly as you reached a silent hand out for his, locking eyes with your husband. The space between his brows was creased and near nonexistent.
The prince did not hesitate to step forward and take your hand, his other raising to your cheek, cupping it wordlessly.
This had ever been the language you shared; one of touch, and the study of one another's gazes.
Within five minutes, you were in the bath astride him, allowing him to make use of himself by attentively scrubbing your shoulders.
You took the opportunity to lay your arms over his, and murmur quietly amongst the rising lavender steam. "I have missed your usual self as of recent." Raising a hand to his hair, scratching a nail around his silver patch.
Valarr sighed and allowed the sponge to fall into the water. Guilt seemed to follow him everywhere, not only to his father's rooms but also in the wedded chamber. There was a dull flicker in his eyes, one of regret for the neglect with which he had been treating your bond.
"I am sorry for it, my love." His large hand gripped high on your waist, thumb brushing over your ribcage as his other tucked wet, oiled tendrils behind your ear.
"I have not been the husband that you deserve these last weeks." He muttered quietly, nostrils flaring shamefully as emotion overwhelmed him.
You shook your head — high water swashing as you pressed your chest to his — and cupped his face, leaning your forehead against his. "Nonsense." The word gentle and comforting, lips pressing his cheek.
"I know how you worry for father. You are good to attempt to unburden him."
Your prince breathed out slowly, hands on your waist moving slowly to occupy himself.
"No, sister. I will not allow you to defend me. I have been a negligent husband, in all ways." He said with a steadfast sureness in his mismatched eyes, shutting them as he pecked your soft lips briefly, and murmured against them.
"You deserve to be seen, and held… and satisfied, my darling wife." The words dripped like boiled water into the tub, warming your body and rising with steam. His voice was as low as his hand, as it drifted between your legs.
An adoring brush of his fingertips against your mound, along with a hard, heaving kiss set the tone for the evening. It had you dripping in mere moments; not having taken him with unhurried passion in a drawn out, suffering sennight. The week past had been full of the quick quenching of lust; nothing worthy of either of your desires.
First, your brother made you finish on his fingers— once, twice, thrice.
Then he lifted you out of the bath, and laid you ever so carefully onto the Targaryen-red sheets before settling his face between your legs.
That was quite possibly his favourite place; between your thighs. His loving lips sucked your inner thighs, burning at your desperate little whines and the musky scent of your arousal.
"Like honey, my delicious sister." He finally spoke, and within a moment had his lips latched around your pearl as a babe would a nipple. He sucked without mercy, your bead aching after earlier abuse.
"Valarr, slow!" You moaned shakily, glassy eyes squeezed shut as you laid back against the pillows. Tears began to gather and spill over your waterline, hips bucking into his mouth as he plunged his tongue inside of you.
Gods, he adored your tears. He prided himself on being such an attentive lover that it made you weep.
The prince made obscene slurping sounds into your cunt, broad shoulders holding your legs open without room for argument. He groaned against your sweetened heat, and nudged the tip of his nose against your pearl, forcing yet another peak that broke you into a sobbing mess.
"Yes…louder, my sweet." Your brother groaned against your core, beginning to press wet kisses to your blushed flesh as he climbed over you.
Stifled cries jutted from your throat, reddened eyes opening desperately and meeting his incongruous ones; they grounded you.
Though Valarr was always desperate to be inside of you, he knew when to stop — and would do so even if you said that you could continue. He knew how to read your every signal, your body's response and the air around you both.
Thankfully, he saw just how desperate you were tonight. Not even four climaxes could satiate you— his magnificent sister, wailing from the pleasure he eagerly gave.
The prince braced all of his weight on one hand, his thick, waiting cock pulsing against your stomach as he leaned in to press a kiss to your sweaty temple, and licked the salt from it.
"Brother…" You sniffled, face quivering as you weakly gripped his sides. In moments like these you were completely at his mercy, he loved it.
"I will take it easy on you, precious sister." The deep rasp of pure want would make you distrusting if it were any other man, but no one's word was truer than Valarr's.
Just as he kissed your wet eyelid, the fat, ruddy head of his cock teased through your folds and was slick in moments as you dripped onto the sheets below. His heavy breath hitched at the feeling.
An memory of patience left. Your dear husband thrust inside will one swift slam of his hips, your sensitive, tortured insides overwhelmed and stretched, tears once again leaving your eyes that at this point were more red than violet.
Loud, unashamed moans began to leave Valarr's lips, loose slick of yours squelching and spreading onto the kept trail of silver and brown from his belly to his base.
"My poor princess, so sensitive." He rumbled into your neck, nipping at it carefully while grinding his hips against yours with slow intention.
Each movement gained a whine or whimper from you, just trying to survive as you floated in a rocking plain of ecstasy for a bit too long. Inside of you, he was just too large.
He filled you completely, and his tip would have banged against your womb, had you not been so aroused.
With your overstimulation, you did not even realise that you were at the edge of your peak, about to spill and cry out for the umpteenth time tonight.
Your husband grunted when your velvety walls began to spasm around him, feeling home in an inexplicable way. "Do not worry, my cum will soothe you." Voice rough with pleasure.
"My babe will fill you," He thrust, straightening up and gripping your thighs, pushing them so that your knees near touched your shoulders, opening you fully. The veins of his pulsing cock bullied the warm flesh of your cunt.
The mismatched eyes of the heir's heir drifted from the beautiful bounce of your breasts to the ring of white at your meeting point. Your tits were leaking milk, and it only made the urge to fuck another child into you stronger.
"You want it, don't you? To swell again with a babe of mine?" He rasped out, and slapped his pelvis against yours, rutting with ever-controlled yet carnal lust.
You broke. Heaving sobs left you, tears dripping down your face as your entire body trembled; abused.
"There you go, princess… relax." Your brother's strangled words felt like a tease— how were you supposed to take it calmly when he had fucked you to the edge of madness?
The squeeze of your eyelids shut was as strong as the grip you had on your husband's side, losing consciousness.
Valarr needed no cue to reach his own shuddering climax, the sight of you below him, sticky all over with your cunt so exposed, glistening under candlelight was enough.
"Fuck, sister-" He shot hot spend inside of you, so deep that you could feel it in your womb. The prince moaned at his finish and it trailed off into a whimper.
The pair of you stayed like that for a moment — you; destroyed, he; recovering — until your brother gathered himself and guided your flexed thighs to be flat once again, eyeing your face for any sign of pain.
Then he carefully removed himself from your warmth— ever so slowly, as to not stimulate your poor core more. Still, you sniffled at the feeling, blinking through the tears to meet his eyes.
Valarr was a flush on legs, but still managed to give you a gentle smile through his heavy breath.
After that, he jumped into action — cleaning you carefully, bringing a cup of wine to your lips, sucking your breasts empty so that you would not be pained by morn — until you were back from the space of saturation that satisfaction brought you to.
The soiled sheets were the least of The Young Prince's worries as he embraced you tightly, a large hand scratching firmly at your scalp to lull you further into sleep— as if you needed help after how thoroughly he had exercised your mind and body, said body now bruised at the hips and thighs.
The contrasting, loving gaze of your husband was aimed at your head laid on his chest, feeling the gentle breaths of yours on his skin. He pressed a kiss to your crown amongst the silver of your hair.
How he loved you; his closest confidant, his sister, his wife, and the mother of his child— with many more to come, of course.
The Prince Valarr adored his princess' beauty, grace, wit, kindness, and form. What a seductive, maddening form it was…
It seemed he would have to put his hand to work, now that you were asleep, he was hard yet again, and your arousing body laid atop his.
The inconvenience of having such a beautiful wife.